The Corpse Without a Country Read Online Free PDF

on the Sound the ferry from Dobbs Island, location of our highest-level sin bins, tooted for a landing. To my left was a long row of dark warehouses and crumbling, abandoned buildings. It was a mournful part of town at night.
    Farther along the harbor curved as a long point of land reached into the Sound. This was Southpoint, built up from the tideflats out of fill, and it housed much of the city’s heavy industry. Lights from plants going strong on swing shift lit the sky, growing stronger as we neared them. Just short of the complex of railroad tracks that led into Southpoint, the steep slope of Hill Street took off from the waterfront eastward. It was bright with neon, a street of penny arcades and pawnshops and beer joints, all waiting to catch the swing shift worker when he came on duty.
    Emily said, “Right there,” and pointed toward a sagging building that cornered on Front and Hill. I made my turn and pulled up before a closed door. On its cracked surface was painted
The Pad
. I was glad to see it.
    Emily opened the door and stepped to the dirty sidewalk. “Thank you, Mr. Durham.”
    She didn’t look at me, but trotted off and opened the door and disappeared down a flight of steps so dimly lighted I wondered how anyone navigated them without falling.
    I drove back down Front to Salmon Way and followed it to Southlake Way and turned left. I didn’t let myself think about Emily, or rather the two Emilys I had seen tonight. There was no profit in it.
    I followed Southlake along the shore of the Inlet. It was a fair-sized body of water and a focal point of much of the newer part of town. The business district touched it at the southwest corner, and all along the west side were boat yards and marine supply houses, with here and there a restaurant or a bar. Around the remainder were homes and apartment houses that looked down on it from the steep hills rising sharply almost from the shore.
    The Inlet was connected to the Sound by a long, natural canal. Just past the bridge that crossed the canal where it joined the Inlet was Arne Rasmussen’s huge boatworks and moorage. But from his place on to the Sound, private homes, with their own boat moorages and their lawns sweeping down to the water, had replaced industry. And on the hills that rose from either side of the canal were Puget City’s fancier apartment houses. I paid out a fair piece of my income so I could live in one. My windows looked down onto the Canal and out across the Sound.
    It was a tremendous view and I pushed the heap, eager to get home to it and to a chance to look at Tom’s report, bouncing on the seat beside me. The traffic along this side of the Inlet was thin at this hour and I made fair time. By the time I had gone halfway to the bridge that crossed the upper end of the Canal, all but one of the cars had left me.
    That one was a big, shiny Buick, and I suddenly became intensely conscious of it. I remembered seeing it on Front Street and then on Salmon Way. I noticed that it was about thirty yards behind me and that despite the lack of traffic it stayed there.
    I lowered my speed. The Buick sloughed off and lay back, keeping its thirty yard spread. I pushed down on the throttle. The Buick picked up until it made up the advantage my spurt had given me and then it slowed again.
    I thought of the report on the seat beside me. I thought of Tom Harbin lying in a hospital with his head ripped open by a gun barrel. And I thought of the difference in power between my heap and the big Buick.
    I looked ahead. Southlake swung to the right, over the bridge. The road that continued straight on was Canal Way and on it, just past the bridge, was Arne Rasmussen’s place. It was dark there and silent at this hour. If that Buick wanted me, it would catch me there, I figured.
    I put on speed, making the heap rattle. The Buick stayed its thirty yards behind me. The September night had grown definitely chilly, but I could feel myself sweating.
    I passed the